


Jack and Jill (Got Fucked Up and Possessive When It Got Dark)

by countessrivers



Series: To Sit In Hell With You [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dark Bruce Wayne, M/M, implications of/allusions to stockholm syndrome, mentions of Bruce's party days and all the things that go along with that, which includes underage drinking drug use and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: Bruce waits for Jeremiah to return.Dark Bruce AU set about 2 years after the end of season 4.





	Jack and Jill (Got Fucked Up and Possessive When It Got Dark)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of this series and slightly late contribution to week 5 of the Summer of Gotham event (Alternate timeline/canon deliverance).

Sprawled out on his back on a table, Bruce stares at the ceiling. The rafters of the warehouse he’s currently in are wreathed in shadows, but Bruce can see well enough. He’s spent enough time in the dark that his eyes have started to permanently adjust. It comes in handy.

It’s not the nicest hideout they’ve bunked down in, but following Bruce breaking Jeremiah out, the GCPD has been extra vigilant. So, needs must. It’s still, in Bruce’s opinion, a sight better than GCPD lock-up. Or Arkham. Or a cell in Blackgate.

But Bruce is restless.

He holding one of the newly stolen Wayne Tech stun batons and is trying to distract himself by twirling it between his hands while switching it on and off. There’s something oddly calming about the low buzz that emanates from the weapon when it’s powered on. The hum settles somewhere deep in the back of Bruce’s head.

*click* *buzz* *click*

*click* *buzz* *click*

*click* *buzz* *click*

Jeremiah had taken a small group of their followers to a meeting with Oswald Cobblepot. Supposedly it was to discuss Barbara Kean and her and continuing interference in both their business, but Bruce didn’t entirely trust Cobblepot when it came to Jeremiah. It’s been just short of three hours since they left, and with no word or sign of return, Bruce was, while not worried per se, starting to get antsy. 

Jeremiah had also taken Ecco with him, which annoyed Bruce to no end. While he knows she is capable enough, and he trusts her to have Jeremiah’s back, Bruce doesn’t like Ecco. Despises her really. Jeremiah swears he’s never touched her the way he touches Bruce, and Bruce believes him, but still, they’ve been together for years. She knows him in ways Bruce doesn’t, and every moment Jeremiah spends with Ecco is a moment he’s not spending with Bruce. Like, right now for instance. 

Bruce also remembers Ecco from his time under Arkham. He knows she saw. Part of him hates her for seeing him so weak. Seeing him back before he knew better. Before he accepted what Jeremiah was trying to teach him.

He often thinks about slitting Ecco’s throat. Or jamming one of his knives into her heart. He knows she feels pretty much the same about him. But killing Echo would more than likely upset Jeremiah, so Bruce hasn’t done it yet.

(Bruce is fairly certain Jeremiah knows what he is thinking – he usually does – and he’s also fairly certain that Jeremiah went out of his way to throw the two of them together in hopes of starting something. But ultimately, Bruce isn’t too worried. If it came down to it, he knows he would win.)

Still, Bruce endeavours to keep a wary eye on her, and is generally glad whenever she’s gone. He just wishes she didn’t have to be gone with Jeremiah.

Not that Bruce is currently alone. There are over a dozen men and women milling about the warehouse. They’re a mix of ambitious would-be criminals, a handful of those looking for an outlet for their more destructive impulses, and the true believers. Despite quick turnovers, Gotham’s leaders and bosses and would-be messiahs have never had trouble filling their ranks, even when incarcerated. Or dead, in some cases. Jeremiah’s original collection of followers, the ones appropriated from Jerome, are long gone, but they’re never short of man power, as people flock to him as they did his brother. Jeremiah welcomes them, gives them purpose, makes use of them. Gives each of them a part to play in the realisation of his (their) vision for Gotham.

Which isn’t to say Jeremiah is particularly magnanimous or merciful towards his followers. He demands utmost loyalty, and is very quick to discard those who show they cannot be relied on. Bruce is the only one he has ever given a second chance to. But this group may last longer than the others, as collectively, they seem to understand what is required of them.

Bruce generally doesn’t hide his face around them, and Jeremiah will usually address him by name, but if anyone has actually put Jeremiah Valeska’s right hand together with Gotham’s presumed dead prince, then they’ve kept it to themselves. At least, no one has run to the police. Or the press.

Not that that’s really an issue anymore, given that Bruce has very much let that particular cat out of the bag. He’s still not entirely sure what possessed him to do so. All he knows is that before he levered himself into the GCPD’s roof in order to, quite literally, get the drop on Jim, he pulled off the mask. Bruce rationalised it to himself later as wanting to throw Jim off, giving himself the advantage. Or that the mask was redundant in such close quarters, Jim would have certainly recognised him anyway. 

(Bruce knows he lies to himself. Has gotten quite good at it in fact.)

Bruce and Jeremiah have discussed many times the benefits, and detriments, of keeping Bruce’s survival a secret. At one point they had considered sending him back, playing as if Bruce had escaped, letting Jim and Wayne Enterprises and the city itself welcome him back, giving him all he needed to burn it all down from the inside. But that would have brought Alfred back to Gotham, and Bruce...

Bruce didn’t want that. 

Doesn’t want that.

So Bruce wears a mask whenever he leaves the relative safety of their base. 

When he’s hunting, he wears one not unlike the one he used to, the one he watched turn to ash in the Manor’s fireplace. It’s nowhere near as advanced as his old one, and he’s had to make do when it comes to body armour. He’s already had one guy get in a lucky hit, and Bruce is fast, but he’s not faster than a bullet. He’s hoping the supplies they liberated from the Wayne Tech warehouse will let him make improvements. At the very least, the tools and weapons already assembled are going to make Bruce’s job far easier, even if he does have to continue covering his face.

Fortunately it seems, neither Jim nor Bullock, the only two who had seen his face that night, have said a word about the identity of Jeremiah’s jailbreak accomplice. But it has been weeks and the unanswered “why?” is still bothering Bruce. Does Jim doubt what he saw? Is he attempting damage control? Is it embarrassment for being so, so wrong? Is he trying to draw Jeremiah and Bruce out? Does he think he can save Bruce?

The very thought makes Bruce’s finger itch for a knife. 

Bruce doesn’t need saving. He’s already been saved.

Though he will admit to feeling somewhat adrift. The encounter with Jim had thrown him, even if he’s trying not to admit it, and without Jeremiah beside him, without an immediate goal or some sort of distraction, Bruce is slipping. Very few of their disciples can keep up with him physically, much less intellectually, so there’s not much stimulation to be found there either.

A few will occasionally look at Bruce with interest, but they know better than to try. Or at least, they’ve learned. The last man who tried getting handsy with Bruce had very shortly after gotten a bullet to the head, courtesy of Jeremiah. Bruce is sure Jerome would commiserate with him about Jeremiah’s inability to share. If he could. And brotherly history aside, Jerome hadn’t been nearly as jealous when it came to who he would let touch (hurt) Bruce.

Most, however, keep their guard up around him, even the friendlier ones. Bruce wouldn’t exactly say they were scared of him, but they generally kept their distance, wary of crossing Bruce for his own sake, as much as over Jeremiah’s probable reaction. It’s not as if Bruce has ever actually hurt any of them, traitors and direct threats to Jeremiah’s continued wellbeing aside, but they’ve seen how dangerous he can be, and rumours do get around.

As if to substantiate that very thought, Bruce sees, from the corner of his eye, one of the goons nearby flinch at the buzz of the baton as Bruce idly flicks it back on. Bruce pauses, turning his head to stare at the man in a way he’s been told is unnerving. He draws a blank on the goon’s name, so Bruce guesses he must be relatively new. He switches the baton off, and taps it casually against the table.

“What’s your name?” Bruce asks.

The man flinches again, dropping the box he was carrying. He quickly drops to his knees, gathering up the box while avoiding Bruce’s eyes.

“It’s uh...it’s Carl,” he stammers.

“Hmm. Well, Carl, you should be more careful. Wouldn’t want to break anything. Or hurt yourself.”

Carl nods hurriedly in agreement, almost panicked, and christ, Bruce hasn’t even done anything to him. The man’s going to need to grow a spine, and fast. God knows how he’s going to react the first time Jeremiah snaps at him. 

“Absolutely. Sure boss, uh sir. I, I got it.”

“Good to hear,” Bruce says, and when he bares his teeth in a smile, Carl all but flees the room. Rolling his eyes back towards the ceiling, Bruce is satisfied for a moment, before the feeling flits away, leaving him on edge again. Taunting skittish goons and running down the batteries on the baton are not the most productive uses of his time. He’s part way through building a proper grappling gun, and he has so many ideas for other tools he can build. He could be working on that right now, but he tried that shortly after Jeremiah left, and all that had resulted in was a burnt hand, a broken soldering iron and a dent in the wall.

Bruce has also been tracking the movements of one of the city’s newest ADAs. From what Bruce can tell, DA Dent is clean, but he’s certainly in the minority. Most of them are corrupt, and virtually all had gone along with Penguin’s licencing scheme, not to mention the years of bribery and exploitation and mob associations that came before. But ADA Abney was something else entirely, and Bruce intends to stop him long before he has a chance to hurt someone else.

Which is why he should be getting up and doing something. Preparing, researching, working, anything. But his mind is elsewhere, scattered, and Bruce doubts he will be able to get anything productive done until-

Bruce’s focus snaps towards the thud of the outer door to the warehouse opening. He listens for the sounds of chaos, panic, shouts for help, but all he hears is relaxed, if excited, conversation. Bruce tilts his head back over the edge of the table until he can see the doorway. It’s less than a minute before the door is opening, and Jeremiah spots Bruce as soon as he enters, quickly crossing the room and striding over to the table before the others even begin filtering in behind him.

Bruce moves to sit up, but Jeremiah’s hands come to rest on his shoulders, where they gently push down until Bruce is once again on his back. He looks up at Jeremiah as Jeremiah stares down at him, idly brushing his thumbs along the column of Bruce’s throat. Bruce can’t help but look him over, searching for any injuries. Jeremiah had removed his coat, jacket and gloves before coming in, so he’s down to his vest and shirt sleeves, but from what Bruce can see, he’s fine. No new bruising, no gunshot or stab wounds, not even any bloodstains, and Bruce can feel himself relax, the buzz under his skin settling now that Jeremiah is back in his sight. He tries to be subtle, but Jeremiah notices, if the slight quirk of his mouth is any indication.

“So things went well?” Bruce asks as he glances around the room, quickly counting off in his head. “You all seem present and accounted for. And in one piece.”

Jeremiah hums as he drums his fingers against Bruce’s shoulders. “Perfectly cordial all things considered. Talked business, no blood spilled, and if Cobblepot is planning to stab me in the back then he’s being far more subtle about it than usual.”

“I still think you should have taken me with you,” Bruce says as he reaches up to circle his fingers around Jeremiah’s wrists. Jeremiah leans down, face hovering above Bruce’s.

“Given what happened last time, Cobblepot was...” Jeremiah pauses, as if searching for the right word. “Hesitant, to have you there.”

Ah. Bruce had had a feeling that that was what this was about.

“Now I could not give less of a damn about what Oswald Cobblepot and his ilk think, but-“

“It’s in our best interests to play nice,” Bruce finishes as he pulls Jeremiah’s arms out of the way, sitting up and spinning his body around so that he’s perched on the edge of the table. Jeremiah moves quickly back into his space, stepping in between Bruce’s legs, and placing his hands on his thighs. “We don’t have the resources at the moment to take on him, Barbara Kean and her band of assassins, and the GCPD, so for now, they are a necessary evil.”

If he’s being completely honest, Bruce can see Jeremiah’s, or rather, Cobblepot’s point. He had disrupted the last Narrows meeting by trying to stab a man in the eye.

In Bruce’s defence, Nygma had been asking for it.

It had been at a meeting not unlike the one Jeremiah had attended tonight. Things had been escalating between the Penguin and Barbara Kean, who was still being supported by the Sisters of the League, and Cobblepot was scrambling to sure up support. Cobblepot’s distaste of Jeremiah was a poorly kept secret, even without all the literal murder attempts, but given Jeremiah’s control over the East End, and his access to money and hardware courtesy of Bruce, Cobblepot couldn’t afford to reject such an ally, as begrudging a partnership as it would be, on both sides.

Which is how Bruce, mask covering the lower half of his face, had ended up in a run-down building in the middle of the Narrows, standing at Jeremiah’s shoulder has he discussed why exactly he should involve himself in Cobblepot’s feud. Bruce and Jeremiah had already, between them, decided to, at the very least, not act against Cobblepot, if only because he was less likely to shoot Jeremiah on sight. The plan was ultimately to step back, let them all fight it out, and then deal with whoever emerged on top. But it didn’t really matter, they would all be dealt with sooner or later anyway.

There had been a number of others that Bruce had also recognised at the meeting, if only by reputation. Victor Fries stood out, naturally, and was seemingly on Cobblepot’s side, though whether that was out of a sense of true loyalty, or the result of significant compensation, Bruce wasn’t sure. He had also recognised Firefly, who kept a wary eye on Jeremiah the whole time, keeping her distance. There was something Bruce admired about her, her complicity in the Penguin’s criminal dealings and her brief alliance with Jerome aside. Bruce could sympathise with the drive to punish those who had hurt her, those who took advantage of the defenceless. However messy her methods may be. Victor Zsasz was there too, apparently having reconciled with Cobblepot after his part in having him arrested and committed. Then again, given the rumoured reasoning behind Butch Gilzean’s death, Bruce wasn’t so sure Zsasz was out of the woods. Either way, Bruce had steered clear, finding something significantly off-putting about the man. Something that raised his heckles. 

Bruce had been standing with Jeremiah, keeping an ear on the conversations around them. He hadn’t been listening for Nygma in particular, but he had kept an ear open, and amused himself by answering along to the riddles the man kept reciting in his head. The last one had had him stumped, along with, apparently, the others crowded around listening, if Nygma’s exasperated “Crime Alley! The answer is Crime Alley! Obviously, god!” was any indication.

In the seconds after Nygma’s words had registered with him, and the meaning of the riddle clicked into place, Bruce had already strode halfway across the room, grabbed Nygma, and punched him in the face. Before the man could pull himself up, or start swinging back, Bruce had pulled out the small knife he kept strapped to his ankle, and brought it down with the intention of driving it through Nygma’s eye. Unfortunately, Nygma had moved faster than expected, and had pushed away Bruce’s arm enough that his blade only sliced into his cheek. 

Given Bruce had been wearing a mask at the time, no one besides Jeremiah had understood what had set him off, and Nygma certainly had no idea that Bruce was in the room. Most had assumed Bruce had just gotten sick of Nygma’s prattling and tried to shut him up, grievous bodily harm and possible attempted murder apparently common place amongst such a crowd. If anything, they seemed to have approved, Nygma’s attitude and incessant riddle-telling not endearing him to many. Or else they just enjoyed bloodshed. Cobblepot was the only one outwardly angry, or at the very least, annoyed, but then Bruce didn’t entirely understand where those two stood these days. Perhaps Cobblepot just hadn’t liked the interuption.

Jeremiah certainly hadn’t tried to stop Bruce, hadn’t even tried to hide his amusement at the whole thing even when Cobblepot had snapped at him to “keep his dog on a shorter leash”. But then why would he? Jeremiah always enjoyed watching Bruce bloody himself.

The bruises on Bruce’s hips and the marks on his neck come morning had proven just how much Jeremiah had enjoyed it.

But still.

Six legs went in and only two came out. Where am I?

Bruce regrets missing his mark. Or not aiming lower.

“I’ll tell you what darling,” Jeremiah says suddenly, squeezing briefly at Bruce’s thighs before stepping back. He grabs Bruce’s hand and pulls him up off the table. One arm wrapped around his waist, Jeremiah turns and spins them, before shifting his weight and dipping Bruce backwards. His centre of gravity thrown off, Bruce clutches with his free hand at Jeremiah’s shoulder, but quickly relaxes when it becomes clear he’s not going any further.

“When this is over, when Kean and the others are dead, and we no longer have need of Cobblepot, I’ll give you Nygma.”

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat.

“I’ll make it an early birthday present. Or late, depending on how long this takes to deal with.

That, Bruce thinks, would be almost as good as the car.

“Should you really be spoiling the surprise?” Bruce asks.

“I want to give you time to think, to plan. I want you to make the most of it. For the insult to your parent’s memory. For hurt he has done you, and this city. I know how fond you still are of Lee Thompkins for instance. And Fox.”

Putting aside Bruce’s highly personal distaste for the man, Nygma was on his list anyway, and killing him would certainly send a powerful message to the rest of Gotham’s criminal underworld. At the moment the criminals of the city, both high and low, are on edge. People are starting to take note of the bodies Bruce has been leaving, but ultimately they are distracted by petty infighting and run-ins with the GCPD. Distraction works in Bruce favour, makes for easy targets, encourages people to make mistakes, but he wonders what it’s going to take for them to realise their time is well and truly running out.

Bruce brings their linked hands closer, and drops a quick kiss on Jeremiah’s hand, grazing his knuckles with the barest hint of teeth. 

“I will certainly start thinking about it,” he says as he moves his other hand to brush his fingers gently against the back of Jeremiah’s neck.

“Do feel free to share any ideas you may come up with.” Jeremiah replies, smiling down at him. He moves again, pulling Bruce back up and setting him on his feet. These days Bruce is taller than Jeremiah, but Bruce moulds their bodies together, pressing as close as he can until they are practically sharing breath.

“You know, I still think it’s a shame that Ms Kean executed what was left of the Ra’s loyalists,” Jeremiah muses. “Granted they were cowards, fleeing at the first sign of trouble and abandoning their leader’s plan.” He leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of Bruce’s ear. “Abandoning their leader’s chosen heir.”

Bruce shudders at the contact.

“Fickle turncoats, but they could have been useful.”

Bruce has had similar thoughts. Ra’s had declared Bruce his heir, but the League itself had never done much for him, bar multiple kidnappings, trauma, and brainwashing. After the bombs had detonated, Ra’s followers had made themselves scarce, and it was only much later that Bruce learned that Barbara had killed them. And from what Bruce can tell, the rest of the League, wherever they were, had apparently decided to leave Gotham, Barbara, and Bruce to their own devices, as he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of them since Ra’s died. He wishes Ra’s had been a little more straightforward and explained a few things before Barbara had jumped in and used Bruce to kill him. 

“An army of highly trained assassins would certainly make cleaning up Gotham easier,” Bruce says. Ra’s had been right about Gotham being sick, about the city needing something different, something more to heal it. Bruce’s eyes are open now, he knows what he needs to do, what he needs to become. He sees what Ra’s and Jeremiah saw. And Bruce is trying, he really is, but he’s held back by his own limitations. 

There’s just so much rot in Gotham.

But he has Jeremiah, and between the two of them, they’re going to save Gotham. Rebuild it. He accompanies Bruce sometimes, when he goes out. He never interferes, leaving the mission to Bruce, but he’ll watch, silent, from the shadows, only stepping forward once it’s done. Once Bruce has delivered his justice. There will be pride and adoration in Jeremiah’s voice and Bruce will lap it up as if it were water and he was a man dying of thirst. Jeremiah will look at Bruce like he is something incredible, something dangerous.

Something to be revered.

Something to be loved. 

He’s looking at Bruce like that now.

In truth, Bruce hadn’t even noticed Ecco and the others withdrawing, leaving him and Jeremiah in the room alone. He’s usually better at keeping an eye on her, at knowing where she is, relative to him or Jeremiah, at all times, but for the moment he’s focused on greater concerns.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, before Jeremiah is yanking Bruce’s head forward and their mouths are crashing together. Jeremiah pulls at Bruce’s bottom lip with his teeth as he walks them backwards, Bruce answering by running his hands up Jeremiah’s sides, and slipping them around to claw down his back, hard enough to be felt through two layers of cloth. Jeremiah rolls his hips against Bruce’s at the sting, and nudges him back far enough that he knocks into the table. 

Jeremiah places his hands either side of Bruce’s body, caging him in, and leans forward to kiss him again. Bruce lets Jeremiah’s tongue slip into his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he tries to decide exactly where to put his hands. He settles on grabbing Jeremiah’s ass, and arching up until they’re pressed against each other.

Bruce moans into Jeremiah’s mouth when the other man slides a hand between them, brushing against Bruce’s cock where it’s hard in his pants. He squeezes at the bulge lightly, then trails his hand under Bruce’s shirt along his stomach, fingers dipping just under his waistband. His other hand sits on Bruce’s hip, holding it in place to keep Bruce from moving. Bruce simply grasps at Jeremiah’s ass harder.

Jeremiah slips open the button on Bruce’s pants, and slowly, deliberately slowly, pulls down the zipper, purposely ignoring Bruce’s muttered urgings to hurry up.

“Patience, love.”

Bruce wants to strangle him.

Bruce pulls back, and reaches up to yank at Jeremiah’s tie just enough to get the top two buttons of his shirt undone, pushing it open to reveal skin. As Jeremiah finally slips his hand into Bruce’s pants, Bruce latches onto that pale neck.

Physically, Jeremiah fascinates Bruce. Not that he wasn’t handsome to begin with, but there was something decidedly other about him now that Bruce couldn’t help but be enticed by. His skin, his mouth, his eyes. Admittedly, at first, it had horrified Bruce, but that had had less to do with Jeremiah’s appearance in and of itself, and more to do with the situation as a whole.

Bruce is actually desperate to know what the chemical compound Jeremiah was hit with was. What Jerome intended. What it actually did, and what it could possibly do. But Jeremiah tends to get twitchy and defensive whenever Jerome and his attempts on Jeremiah’s life are brought up, so Bruce does so rarely.

Though a part of him does miss the red hair. 

And the glasses.

Bruce grazes along Jeremiah’s jaw, down his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone. Gently at first, but as Jeremiah’s touch gets firmer, Bruce starts biting hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth. Starts sucking red-purple bruises onto that white skin. He wants to leave a mark on Jeremiah almost as much as he wants Jeremiah to mark him.

No one else has ever made Bruce feel like this.

In those weeks and months after Ra’s’ death (the first time) Bruce had wanted nothing more than to let go, forget. Let the music and the drink and the drugs and the sex drown out his guilt and his grief until he could finally breathe again. And it was Gotham, no one was going to stop him. No one cared.

He kept company with pretty girls and pretty boys and the occasional older man when the voices in his head that sounded suspiciously like Alfred and suspiciously like Jim Gordon and suspiciously like his father got too loud to ignore. Bruce barely had to try. His name, his looks and his youth did almost all of the work. After Silver’s lies and all those years of dancing around in circles with Selina, trying to find an equilibrium with her, a name for what they were, it had been nice to just be wanted, even for shallow, empty reasons. Simple, no strings, and for the first time since his parents had died, Bruce had felt like he had known exactly what people had wanted from him. 

Each night a different a different house, a different club, a different group of people.

Except for Tommy. Tommy was always there. The two of them, spending their nights together, drunk and high and lost to the feeling of being young and rich and untouchable. Tommy knew the best spots; which places had the best drinks, and which places to avoid. He could be relied on to have Bruce’s back, to egg him on, or swoop in when someone wasn’t getting the hint that Bruce was very much not interested. Bruce could trust him to carry him to the back of a cab, and on one particular occasion, to hold back Bruce’s hair as he vomited up a very expensive bottle (or two) of champagne. Not that Tommy himself had been doing much better.

If you had told Bruce eight years ago that he would one day be friends with Tommy Elliot, much less spending practically all his time with him, Bruce would have laughed. Particularly given their last encounter.

(Tommy had tried apologising for it again, one night when they were slumped against each other in a booth in some club that Bruce can no longer remember the name of, if he ever knew it in the first place. 

“No, seriously, I’m sorry. I was a fucking ass. Like, I know kids are assholes, and to be fair, you were kind of weird, but I shouldn’t have said that about your parents. So, you know, sorry.”

Bruce had waved him off, reaching instead for the bottle of vodka they had been sharing. In truth, he had forgiven Tommy the moment his first punch had landed. Or if not exactly forgiven, then he’d certainly moved on. And it was hard to muster up resentment when he was very determinedly ignoring any thought about his parents anyway.)

Bruce is still not entirely sure when exactly he noticed that Tommy wanted him. Tommy had never come out and said he was interested, or even implied that he was open to it, but at some point, as Bruce’s eyes had wandered away from the girl in his lap towards where Tommy was quickly rounding second with his own partner, he saw Tommy looking back.

Before long they were going at each other, ignoring their dates and hangers-on, fumbling desperately and pushing up against each other on crowded dancefloors, and in dark corners and club bathrooms. Tommy certainly hadn’t complained about the marks Bruce had left on his neck. Although Bruce hadn’t had a problem with the bruises Tommy had left either. The purple rings around his wrists had been welcome even.

Bruce is starting to learn he has a type.

Most of Bruce’s most recent bruises have faded, and he wonders what he’ll have to do to get Jeremiah to give him new ones.

Jeremiah is stroking Bruce’s cock harder, and faster, brushing his thumb over the head in a way that makes Bruce shudder. He squeezes hard enough that it should hurt, but all it does is drive Bruce higher. He can feels Jeremiah’s own hard cock pressing against his stomach as they roll their hips together. He’d like to offer a hand, but what he’d like even more is for Jeremiah to turn him around, bend him over the table, and fuck him into unconsciousness. Hopefully that is where the night is going. Bruce feels as though Jeremiah owes him that at least. Plus, Bruce is a little preoccupied with holding Jeremiah in place as he marks up his neck, while also sliding a hand up under his shirt to graze a nipple. He only has so many hands.

Jeremiah laughs when Bruce bites at the juncture of his neck and shoulder hard enough to break the skin.

“Good boy,” he says, tilting his head back to give Bruce more room while speeding up his strokes along Bruce’s cock.

That, and the taste of Jeremiah’s blood on his tongue, is what pushes Bruce over the edge. He muffles his scream as he comes by biting down harder, and feels, more than hears, Jeremiah’s answering gasp. His legs are weak, and if it weren’t for Jeremiah’s arm around his waist, holding him up as he works him through his orgasm, Bruce would have collapsed. 

Loosening his jaw, Bruce turns his head to rest against Jeremiah’s shoulder. The iron tang of blood still in his mouth, Bruce breathes in the scent of him, eyes slipping shut. He laps a little at the bite mark as Jeremiah withdraws his hand.

He hears Jeremiah hum, and opens his eyes to see him wipe his hand carelessly on the leg of Bruce’s pants. 

“Did you just?”

“Oh, you have other pairs,” Jeremiah says as he nudges Bruce’s head up off of his shoulder to meet his eyes. “And you won’t be wearing these ones for long anyway.” He steps back, spins Bruce around before stepping back in. The table is the perfect height, and Bruce is burning everywhere Jeremiah is pressed against him. He feels Jeremiah’s lips brush against the back of his neck, his ear, his cheek. He hears Jeremiah inhale, then there’s a hand on the back of his head, not pushing. Not yet.

But Bruce goes down anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> More parts of this to come at some point.
> 
> And the riddle that makes Bruce a bit stab-happy is an actual achievement riddle in the Arkham City game. I had pretty much the same reaction as Bruce did when I heard it.


End file.
